


A Visitor

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: BDSM, F/F, F/M, Femdomme, Multi, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-05 15:38:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11016417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Kylo is dubious about Phasma inviting Unamo in... at first.





	1. Chapter 1

Kylo is the type to feel jealous, and always has been. When he found out the senior ranks of the Order were - well - known for swapping beds, he’d not been happy about it. 

For one, no one had invited him before. For two, he felt it said only one thing: he wasn’t enough on his own.

But then… then there was the fact that Phasma had asked specifically about another woman. It might have been a nod to his envy, or it might have been a preference, or it might have been an offering to let him watch what was, apparently, the favoured fantasy of most heterosexually inclined men. 

And he’s still not sure he’s not ridiculously jealous, because she’s had to use binders to restrain him to a chair to watch, and because he half wants to punch Unamo when she walks inside, and half wants to do other things that are less like punching, and much more fun.

The second woman is much shorter, but she strides in with that same military assurance about her that Kylo’s realised comes with the uniform. All sharp lines: her creases, her cheekbones, her hair parting. Sharp enough to cut yourself on, though his hands are tied, so he can’t reach out.

Her heels clip neatly on the deck-plate, and she walks into the room, ignoring his presence. Kylo doesn’t know if she is at all interested in men, and to be honest, it doesn’t matter. She’s here for Phasma: they both are. 

Though she’s subordinate in rank, the Chief Petty Officer clips her boots together and stands proudly, looking like she’s at least a foot taller than the woman who looms above her. The power-play amuses Phasma, because her eyes sparkle at the other soldier, her lip curling on one side. 

“You’ve gone unpunished for too long,” Unamo says, almost airily.   


“I have.”  


“You’re going to have to impress me, or I won’t see the point in continuing your training.”  


Slowly, gracefully, the chrome-clad woman drops to one knee. She clasps her hand over the bent one, and lowers her head. “ _Mistress_. I am yours to command.”

Unamo grabs her hair, pulling it hard. Kylo knows how it feels - on both sides - and his scalp burns and his hands itch with the memory of both layered over one another at once. He hears the minute catch in Phasma’s breath, and watches as her pale cheeks and full lips stain with red, fuck-me gloss. 

The standing woman pushes Phasma back, making her spine curve, throwing the arc of her reach into stark focus. Her breasts move above her ribs as she breathes in the stress position, and her hands fall obediently to her sides. Unamo holds her like that, and Kylo can feel the edges of his lover’s discomfort and arousal pricking through like sympathy pains. The tension in her shoulderblades, the cramped place at the base of her spine. The point where fingernails push into soft skin, the… heat he can imagine starting to pool in her panties. 

He wonders how wet she already is. Does she like it more, with a woman? With someone smaller and less powerful than her? Does the idea of being made to _obey_ and sway to someone who she could crush between her thighs make her wetter? The control isn’t based on pure force - not of _physicality_ \- it’s the force of personality, of personal conviction that has Phasma bending like a bowcaster, sprung and under pressure, ready to explode. 

It’s… beautiful. Envy aside, it’s beautiful to watch her gaze so adordingly up, even as it hits like a vibroblade between the discs of his spine. 

Unamo lets go, and Phasma wobbles, before sinking low on both knees, sitting on her heels. She ducks her head again, laying her hands, palm-up, on her thighs. The very picture of obedient. 

Kylo can barely breathe.

“Strip for me. Quickly. Efficiently. I don’t have all day.”  


“Yes, Mistress,” Phasma says, rising like there’s no bones in her, and she’s pulled upright by a string right through her body. Her hands go to her armour, pulling open the protective shell, baring cotton-clad limbs.   


Under the armour, she’s wearing a simple shirt which is pulled up and over her head, freeing her neck from the black clutch. A toss of hair, and a flick of legs, and she’s down to only her panties (yes, darker, between the thighs), and a sports bra that holds her breasts up and slightly apart. Bullet-tipped nipples, and she waits for the next order. 

Unamo trails two fingers over the curve of her jaw, then slides them down over her - his? their? - lover’s throat, caressing over the crest of one breast. She walks to the bed, and opens the playcase that sits beside it. Out comes a set of binders, which she passes around the headboard, waiting for Phasma to move into position. 

The Captain does so, sitting high on the bed, lifting her hands above her head. Unamo clips them into the binders effortlessly, and then she picks up the small electrical wand. Kylo can hear the static-like spark from here, and he watches as the wand is drawn over Phasma’s broad shoulders, over her collarbone, teasing over the swell of soft breast. He can hear the intensity sliding up and down as her thumb works the controls, making Phasma’s breathing pull like she’s been exerting herself. He can’t see her face, but he can see the movement of Unamo’s shoulder, and he can infer from that where the wand goes.

Down, over her belly, and Kylo wants to be there. He wants to kiss it better, and smell the arousal pooling between her legs. He wants to lick the salt from her skin, and he whimpers slightly in frustration, only to be ignored.

Unamo doesn’t care about him. If Phasma’s noticed, he can’t see. He’s… just a voyeur, here, and that turns him on more than it has any right to. He watches as her wrist twists, and he assumes the wand is running over the insides of those parted thighs, by the ankles he can see. The toes that scrunch up, and the way the bed moves as Phasma tries to stay still. 

Over and over, until the sounds of panting and moaning can no longer be held back. He watches her feet move as she presses into the wand, and then Unamo makes a sharp movement, stepping aside just enough so he can see the wand’s been pushed under the waistband of those panties, and is stroking firmly between her legs. The bulge in the fabric is clear, and he wonders if it’s slipped between her lips, if it teases at her slick hole? 

He doesn’t get to watch that long, though, because the wand is turned off and moved away. 

Kylo wants to beg for more, and his own cock aches in sympathy. He knows how pleasurable it is to be pegged, and whilst it might not be the same as being fucked vaginally, it’s close enough that he can feel echoes of empty hunger in his core. 

A hand slips into her wet underwear, and he sees the flexion of tendons in her arms as fingers crook up and into Phasma, the way her shoulder tenses as fingers part and spread her wide. 

“Good girl. That’s better. You’re almost ready for me to begin.”  


 _Begin_? Kylo is already light-headed, but he knows - ah, he knows - women have a different stamina to men. Maybe that’s why she wanted this, maybe that’s what he’s lacking, that Phasma still needs. 

Her hand pulls out, and she wipes her fingers clean over the other woman’s belly. 

A sudden movement, and Unamo stands on the bed. She holds onto the wall, and her other hand moves to open her pants, pushing the front down, but leaving her ass covered. Kylo watches with fascination as her buttocks clench under the fabric as she rides Phasma’s face, grinding and thrusting almost as if she’s got a cock of her own. 

Kylo _loves_ to eat a woman out. There’s something so wonderful about all those folds, those ripples, those holes and those juices. The harder parts, the softer, and the way they flex around his tongue and chin. He runs his tongue over his full lips, imagining he’s in Phasma’s place right now. Would they taste the same? Is her clit harder, or softer? Are her lips longer? Is she trimmed, wild, or bare? He doesn’t know, all he knows is the sounds of slurping, of licking, of sucking. He’s hard beyond belief, and he wants to do _something_ , but all he can do is **watch** , and want. 

On and on she goes, until Kylo is dizzy and breathless, so he can only assume how Phasma is feeling. Unamo’s hands, by her sides, pull and play with the breasts that press into her, and then she steps back and closes her clothing, hiding her sex from his eyes. 

Kylo wonders how much of this was premeditated, or negotiated. He doesn’t care, it’s all _hot_. And for all his feelings of inadequacy, it’s difficult to deny your partner that kind of pleasure that he sees on her sticky, smiling face. 

For a moment, their eyes meet. Just for a moment. He sees her beaming, and sees how she seems even more relaxed when they ‘talk’ without words. 

And then she’s being grabbed by the waist, forced up onto her knees, and turned over.

Her wrists cross in the binders, and she has to kneel with her ass presented for the next thing. Unamo’s fingers loosen the bra, pushing it so the only place it stays is around the bound shoulders. Her breasts fall beneath her, and Phasma calls out as they’re pulled, plucked, pinched. More torture than he might inflict, from the sounds of flesh on flesh, and the cries of pain. She’s writhing, and almost begging, and Kylo can’t hear the things whispered right in her ear, but he _knows_ , he **knows** that they’ll be going through her like a saber through metal. 

Fuck. Fuck. **Fuck**. He should be taking pointers, but his head is getting fuzzy. 

Her breasts are left alone, and her panties pushed down to her knees. Her ass is up, and Kylo watches greedily as the shorter woman rains down a flurry of blows over her cheeks, and upper thighs. Smack, smack, thud, swat. Deep, impactful blows and sharp, edge-on slices. Red lines over spreading pink, never too much for her to handle, never enough for her to be satisfied. 

It’s wonderful, and he bites into his tongue to give himself the only real pain he can inflict on himself like this. Bites it almost to bleeding when he sees the paddle move to drag harshly between those thighs, rubbing up between her folds, teasing at her most delicate places. 

Damn. 

Unamo drops the paddle, and finds small, cruel clips. Kylo watches in fascination as they’re applied to Phasma’s nipples, and at the way they suddenly start to _buzz_. It could just be vibration, or it could be electric again, but it has her moving her weight from hip to hip, and Kylo then sees the wand picked up again. It’s wiped clean, then coated in something gleaming. The head spins around as the current picks up, and she starts to slide the top between Phasma’s legs, teasing her over and over, as her nails score over her hip and ass, into the red, raw cheeks. 

Surely she can’t last long like that, can she? Her nipples buzzed, her clit tortured, her ass sore and scratched… but she goes on, and on, and on. Over and over, until she’s dropped her head down in defeat, slumping and twitching and her feet clawing at the air helplessly. Unamo doesn’t stop, not until she hears the woman’s broken begging.

It isn’t ‘stop’. It isn’t that. It’s ‘please’, over and over. Please. 

It goes so. So. Far. Down.

The wand moves, and Kylo supposes it must be right on the hood of her clit. The other hand moves between her legs, and Kylo watches as it pushes its way inside of her. He can’t see her lips stretched around the fist, but he can imagine it. Tight, full, and trembling. 

He has so, so much to learn.

Phasma comes again - how many times must it already have been? And she drops onto the bed, panting. She’s lost, and Unamo stands the toy up between her thighs, the buzzing end resting at the crack of her butt. 

That’s when she climbs on top, and starts to grind herself against the wand, finding her own climax by fucking herself onto Phasma’s ass. She doesn’t even open her pants, just riding the sticky head against her uniform, and Kylo finds that hotter than he has any right to at all. 

When she’s done, Unamo tosses the toy to one side, then unfastens the binders. She lies out full-length on top of the other woman, playing with the nipple clamps, rolling their bodies together. 

Kylo’s pretty sure he’s just seen something most people’s eyes would melt from their skulls over. Holy. Fucking.

It’s half an hour of kissing at least before Unamo lets the binders go, and rises, her clothing still vaguely sticky. 

“Don’t leave it so long next time,” she chides.  


“I won’t, Mistress.”  


Unamo leaves, and Kylo doesn’t even know if he dare ask to be let go. Whatever he could do next would be nothing compared to that. 


	2. Chapter 2

Phasma can feel the eyes upon her, heavy as a blanket on a hot, summer’s night. The kind that’s almost too warm, for now, but which you know you’ll need later on. The discomfort of being too warm a comfort in and of itself, making you hyper-aware of every inch of you.

That is Kylo’s gaze, all over. She wonders how marked Unamo’s left her body, wonders how many of the red marks have turned to ruby red from broken blood-vessels. Where the heat and the throb still signals over her flesh, and where the lines of ownership start and end. 

She also wonders how long he’ll stay there. Kylo is more than capable of releasing himself, and he always has been. His stillness is born from consent, not coercion. She pushes her hands up and under the pillow, arching out some of the tension, feeling the slickness still between her legs making the tops of her thighs rub. Her curls are messily knotted from the friction and release, and she can feel her pulse pound more blood down there, like a ticking chrono. After any good vibration down there, the aftershocks last for a wonderfully long time. There’s something about a thorough pounding, but there’s wholly other joys to be had with something that needs batteries, not carbohydrates. 

The thrumming says she’s not entirely spent, and with enough of a pause, and enough of a further stimulation, she can definitely peak again. Kylo is a very devoted and dedicated lover, but she’s found women tend to understand her rhythm better. It’s why she often insists on using toys before they even think about letting his cock do anything other than bounce around between them. He doesn’t leave her unsatisfied, but there’s almost always room for _more_.

Phasma rolls her hips into the mattress, enjoying the low sting in her buttocks. Yes. She definitely wants more. 

“Are you going to come over here, or should I comm Mitaka?” she calls out, teasingly.   


“Is that what you want?”  


Oh, but the way his voice gruffs is _delightful_. He’s always been deep, sonorous, _chthonic_ , but when he’s aroused, it does things to her. 

“What do you think?” Phasma asks, pulling her knees towards her ass, lifting it, flashing the briefest of glimpses of her ready cunt. She starts to sinuously work her spine, grinding into the mattress, even though it’s nothing like enough stimulation. Her pressed-together thighs means she can get some small relief, but it’s more torment than anything else, if she’s honest.   


It does the trick, getting Kylo out of his restraints and on his knees at the foot of the bed. 

He’s obviously not sure what role to take, going from the distant voyeur to… something else. Phasma, for her part, is feeling half-way between up and down, an odd mix of levelled out subordination, coasted, enjoyed, and at that pivot-point where everything could shift. 

Sometimes she’s the one shoving him down, sitting on his chin and using his lips and tongue. Sometimes she’s the one riding his cock like it’s only there for her (and, she is pretty sure that’s _true_ ), but equally she doesn’t mind his large hands pinning hers down, or his strength forcing her to follow his lead, or his words and gestures controlling.

There’s pleasure to be found on both sides of the bed. 

She’s a little too ‘up’ to go back down, but a little too ‘down’ to vault into command, so she decides the strange hinterland is where she’s going to stay. 

“Get on with it,” she barks.  


He seems to understand, because he grabs her ankles and _yanks_. He’s strong - especially in the upper body - and the enjoys the reminder of his physicality. His hands hold her legs wide, and his face suddenly pushes between her thighs, making her purr. 

Those lips are something, and that tongue - so long, so flexible, so dedicated - is one of the best things in the galaxy. There’s no trace of Unamo to lick from her, just her earlier arousal. His nose pushes up between her buttocks, his tongue lapping beneath, making her start to slick up all over again. She’s not quite there yet, but the position–

“Open the box.”  


“Mnnnf?”   


His face is still between her legs, and she slams back onto it, then tries to climb up and away. His hands keep her ankles, and pull her back down again.

“Open. The. Box,” she growls.   


She’ll order him to top her, if it comes to it. She’s done it before, and the _friction_ of it, the interplay between roles…

He lets go of her ankles, and she scoots back until she’s bent over the edge of the bed. His hands pull the toys out one by one, and when the expanding spreader bar comes out, she purrs. 

“That one.”  


He obviously doesn’t mind, because he’s on one knee, clipping one cuff around her ankle. The other, and then the expanding bar clicks out. And out. And out. He expands it until she can feel the tension of the triangle all the way up the inside of her thighs and calves, and the way it splits her lips, too. 

Rope. Rope around her wrists, more for show than anything else. Doubled over, binding them together, the knot tight, but unattractive. She appreciates the aesthetic, and then tries to arch her back again.

“What’s wrong, soldier, you don’t know how to handle a woman who’s all tied up? Thought it would be easy for you.”  


She’s glancing over her shoulder, and she sees the flicker of doubt he lets out. He’s _worried._

Is this a step too far? Is knowing she can enjoy Unamo’s attentions too much for him? Can he not bear to touch her? Is he…

“Tell me how to worship you,” he says, even as he draws soft fingers over sore spots.   


The perfect tension, caught between control and the complete opposite. Her head swims from the sensations, from the memories, from the fact she’s bound and _almost_ helpless. From the fact he _still_ wants to please her. 

“I want you to give me what she couldn’t.”  


“She gave you plenty.”  


“She did. I enjoyed it. I also enjoy you.”  


His hands press harder on welts, making pain sparkle through her, making her skin _sing._ Making her blood _roar_. She wants, she wants, she **wants him right fucking now**.

“Fuck me,” Phasma growls. “Fuck me hard. Fuck me like you want to fuck the memory of her off my skin. Fuck me like I’m a whore, and like you worship and adore me. Give me _everything you have_.”  


A hand grabs her hair, and for a moment the pain behind her eyes blinds her to anything else, but then she feels the thrust of his cock into her. 

He’s already achingly hard, having not touched himself all through the earlier play. She enjoys the sensation: it’s _different_ to something artificial. It’s not better, or worse, just… different. She feels connected to him, like a circuit finding earth. Feels… raw when he scrapes his most sensitive parts inside of hers, and she growls in encouragement.

 _More_. Harder. **Faster.**

He takes the hint, and his rutting at her is purely _animal_ , not the devout praise she’d asked for. This is _primal_ , essential, and her clit aches for a touch he can’t give her in this position. It’s rubbed into the bed, but it’s not - it’s not quite there. The feel of his cock spreading her hole wider, stroking her deep, deep inside… and that itching, wanting feeling. 

_MORE._

She needs more. She needs more, and she struggles with her wrists, trying to get them free. She wants to come, _needs_ to come, and she can’t like this, not–

Oh. A firm hand shunts under her belly, and then he’s pushing two fingers between her lips. He catches the already-raw nub, pinching a bit tighter than she thinks she can stand. It’s almost agony, but it’s _pretty_ agony, and she cries out at the top of her voice as his slams rock her sex into his pinching, and the angle shifts, making her feel almost like a knife’s cut her up from cunt to belly. A gushing, rushing heat, and her legs fight the cuffs, the bar. Her toes claw uselessly at the floor as she tries to spread wider, or clamp shut, or - or - _anything_ \- but she’s helpless, and that’s what finally does it. 

Howling, she finds another climax, a _harder_ one, one that’s almost unpleasant, but isn’t. It seems to stretch on, and then she feels the tell-tale whuff of breath before Kylo’s emptying himself inside of her, his seed pooling hot and heavy in her. Phasma tightens her walls around him, wanting to pull every last drop into her, wanting the offering. 

Kylo’s hazy by the time his climax abates, and he’s characteristically snuggly, nuzzling her neck and sides. He’s stopped touching her clit, but he still strokes around her twitching skin, gliding over now-tacky flesh. 

“Don’t ever doubt I need you,” she insists.   


“I can’t promise that.”  


“Then promise me you’ll try _not_ to.”  


“That, I can.”  


Utterly satisfied, she feels her wrists unbound, and Kylo’s weight bear her into the bed. It feels… safe. Good. _Worth it_.


End file.
